


America's Favorite Pastime

by fhsa_archivist



Category: NCIS
Genre: Established Relationship, Points of View
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-26
Updated: 2007-02-26
Packaged: 2019-02-05 18:00:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12799443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhsa_archivist/pseuds/fhsa_archivist
Summary: Just a relaxing evening at the ballpark.





	America's Favorite Pastime

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Haven, the archivist: This story was originally archived at [Fandom Haven Story Archive (FHSA)](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Fandom_Haven_Story_Archive), was scheduled to shut down at the end of 2016. To preserve the archive, I began working with the OTW to transfer the stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. If you are this creator and the work hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Fandom Haven Story Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/fhsa/profile).

There's nothing quite like being in the ballpark on a balmy summer's evening. Feelings of excitement and expectation fill the air as people begin to arrive, some trickling slowly in hours before the scheduled first pitch and others hustling to their seats right before the singing of the National Anthem. The stadium becomes a mystical, magical place to go on those game days and, somehow, causes men and women alike to forget about the stresses and strains of day-to-day pressures, for a brief time at least, and is the only place in town where the person sitting in one seat is probably just as crazy about baseball as the next.

 

Those lucky or wealthy enough to be season ticket holders swiftly become acquainted with the people who sit near, quickly and comfortably learning to refer to them by their first names, even though they'd most likely never associate with each other outside the confines of the ballpark. They may be professionals or blue collar workers or parents trying to pass the love of the game on to their children but, once the action begins, they are all united in a singular cause and will scream and shout and, occasionally, curse together for the success of their chosen team. It's a strange but beautiful melding of personalities, especially if the people involved are generally kind, can hold their alcohol, and adhere to the basic rules of the stadium.

 

I've been working the section of the ball park directly behind the first base dugout for the past three seasons now and have enjoyed just about every single moment I've been here. It's not a paying job but, shit, I don't mind. I get to see all the games played here for free, I get amazing tips at the end of the season from most of the regular ticket holders in my section, and I get to scope out all the hot bodies, male and female alike...and let me tell you, there's nothing like summertime heat in a concrete and metal laden structure to bring out the babes in their most revealing clothing.

 

Oh, yeah...

 

The stands are beginning to fill up now and I've got my game face on. Friendly but all business, it's my responsibility to make sure everyone is in their proper seats and ready to enjoy the evening. I, too, know my people and understand what brings them to the park.

 

The Jacobson family is arriving, with both kids in tow again, and I can't help smiling at the youngest boy, Bradley. The little guy doesn't really like baseball all that much but his folks drag him along for a 'family activity' instead of hiring a sitter to stay home with him. That's okay...they'll buy him all kinds of crap to eat and drink and, eventually, around the fifth inning, will take him over to the kiddie area to expend some of that energy. The older boy, Seth, loves the game with a passion and will probably snag a foul ball before the night ends with the glove he's already wearing. He knows the game, has autographs of all the current players and coaches in his special program, and can recite stats until your ears begin to bleed.

 

There's Ramona and Traci, who are barely in high school but dress and act more like many of the college girls I see nowadays. I don't know how they get to the games, who bought them their season tickets, or where all their spending money comes from but they hardly miss when the team plays here at home. I've heard them talk about road trips, too, but I couldn't be positive about anything they said concerning those games. They spend most of the time flirting shamelessly with anyone they can attract, from ball players to other fans, and, somehow, always end up a little tipsy, even though I *know* they don't buy the beer hawked by the wandering vendors. Not on my watch. They do periodically end up sitting in someone's private skybox and I cringe each time I think about what possibly goes on in the seclusion of those confines. But, for tonight, I just nod and greet them as they near and get enchanted all over again by their open smiles and friendly personalities. I know...I'm such a guy. They're not bad girls but, God help me, they are a temptation.

 

To the back of my section I can see Frankie and JJ settling in and they each raise a hand in greeting when they see me looking their way. They were season ticket holders here long before I came along and quickly set me straight about what they expected from me, gently instructing me through my virgin season. I have to be honest; I was raised in a relatively small town and only vaguely familiar with the concept of dykes through what I see on TV or in the movies or read in magazines, so I was a bit intimidated with the cropped, spiky hairdos, the manly, butch attire, and the fairly loud, gregarious personalities. But I'm a bit of an odd person, too, and was glad when they took me under their muscular wings and tutored me in the wonderful world of all things lesbian. What a fucking education!

 

Anyway, I like most of the people in my section and get concerned when I don't see someone for a while. Like the guy who's been sitting in seats twelve and thirteen of row nine for the past two years. He attends whenever he can but I know he's out of town or tied up due to work a lot because, more times than not, his seats are occupied by strangers who say they're his friends. I know this for sure because, when someone unfamiliar slides into his seats, I always check the ticket stubs. It's my job...plus, I don't want some slacker who bought a bleacher ticket for somewhere in the outfield to think he can just sneak into any empty seat. Not in *my* section. These seats are expensive and my people deserve to be protected...especially from someone who may come in for one game and think they can cause problems.

 

At any rate, the guy who owns seats twelve and thirteen...Tony...is here tonight and, man, does he look fine. Tall and solid and graced with the kind of good looks I'd give my left nut for, he almost saunters down the concrete steps, pausing only long enough to speak briefly to Frankie and JJ on the way to his row. The two women react immediately to his presence and rise to shake his hand in greeting, their faces splitting into wide, genuine smiles. I can tell they're just as glad to see him back as I am. He's missed the past three games and, according to the last couple of guys who used his tickets, he'd been injured while out of town on business. I don't exactly know what he does for a living but I think it must have something to do with working with the public. He just has that easy, amiable personality and that direct way of focusing on you when he talks or listens which gives me the impression he knows, from experience, how to handle all types of people. I've seen him mingle with the older, more conservative fans and the younger, rowdier fans equally and, I swear to God, I've never seen him treat any of them differently. Not once. He'll probably even have Bradley on his lap sometime before the evening is out and, if he hangs around long enough after the game tonight, the kid will more than likely be asleep on his shoulder when the fireworks go off. No shit...I think Bradley could sleep through a nuclear explosion.

 

Wait a minute...what's this?

 

There's someone with Tony tonight but it's not an equally tall, big-busted woman or one of his visiting frat brothers that's trailing close behind. No, this guy is different: a bit older, with amazing blue eyes and striking silver hair, and the carriage of a confident, masculine male. I can see several heads turning to watch as they make their way toward the appropriate seats and I just about laugh when I notice Ramona and Traci almost swiveling completely in their seats to follow their path. The girls whisper conspiratorially and I can only wonder what's going on in those young, fertile imaginations. I'm pretty sure they would only strike out with any plans involving these two guys but I wouldn't bet on it. Tony's always had an appreciative eye for the fairer sex and he's brought some luscious babes to games in the past but, as far as I know, he's never gone after any potential jail bait before. I could be wrong but I don't think so.

 

Tony seems to stumble a bit while attempting to squeeze past a couple of his row-mates and I try to suppress an automatic grin when I see the older guy place a protective hand gently on the back of his neck and bend close to speak into his ear. Then, I remember the news about his recent injury and I abruptly sober, wondering if he's still not feeling quite up to par. That wouldn't be good. The look the two men exchange when their eyes meet speaks volumes and I suddenly understand...or think I understand...the boundaries of their relationship. I glance quickly back toward Frankie and JJ's position and, sure as shit, they saw it, too, because they've got their own heads close together and are grinning like a couple of damn fools. Tony and this blue-eyed vision are *together*.

 

Well, kiss my ass and call me Betty...

 

Things settle into routine as the players are announced; sporadic booing erupts when the visiting team's starting players begin to fall into formation along the third base line...unfortunately, that's always expected...but there's also a lot of gracious applause from those fans who truly believe in the concept of good sportsmanship. I'm proud none of the razzing originates from my section and, just like a pleased parent, I puff up a bit with silent pride. God, I love these people...

 

As the color guard enters the edge of the field some distance away and begins its slow, carefully paced walk toward home plate, I catch a quick movement out of the corner of my eye and notice Tony's companion is immediately on his feet, back straight, eyes glued to the approaching flags, and his face etched in an expression I've only seen on guys who've fought hard in the service of this country. Well, damn. My admiration has risen even higher.

 

Tony is levering to his feet, too, and leaning slightly against his companion, their shoulders brushing occasionally as they watch the even, measured progression of the silent procession. I'm always on my feet while at my post but I find myself, strangely enough, pulling back my shoulders and trying to stand a bit straighter, almost as if my nagging mother is somewhere close by. Others are rising, also, even before the announcer can ask people to stand, and the silence is filled with respect. I don't think I've ever felt prouder of being an American than I do right at this moment.

 

We sing the National Anthem along with members of a local Baptist youth choir and, I swear, we sound good tonight. Damn good. Even the ball players along the base lines, caps pressed against their chests, seem to sense a difference and cast random glances up into the stands. I can only wonder what some of them are thinking, especially those of foreign birth. Some of the guys on this year's squad can barely speak English much less sing, "Oh, say can you see," but, I guarantee, the emotional feeling is all the translation they need.

 

The game gets going and I have to remember to move around the boundaries of my assigned area, checking on those who may need a bit of assistance, keeping my eyes peeled for any who may attempt to sneak in from the cheap seats, and making sure the drinkers aren't getting too rowdy or obnoxious. It's a great way to spend a few minutes chatting with the ticket holders and an even better way to get a closer look at Tony and his friend. I can't actually get too near their position, with the location of their seats so close to the center of the row, but there are enough empty seats around them that I have a clear shot of their interactions.

 

Tony and his mystery man have each consumed a hot dog and a large beer by the end of the second inning and are now sharing a big bag of roasted peanuts, cracking the thin shells and dropping the empty husks under their feet. There seems to be quite a bit of amicable words exchanged as they watch the action unfold and I get the impression they're use to this kind of easy connection on a lot of different levels. The blue-eyed man suddenly laughs at something they're discussing and is throwing a companionable arm around Tony's shoulders, his big hand patting the opposite arm, and playfully bunching the sleeve of the soft-looking T-shirt in his fist. They look at each other again and, bam!...there it is once more. Something electric sparks and Tony's grin becomes almost shy, his cheeks flushing slightly before he can quickly look away. Blue Eyes laughs again and relaxes his hold on the shirt sleeve, letting most of his arm drop down to rest across the back of Tony's seat but I can plainly see the thumb of his hand continuing to keep contact, drawing slow, lazy circles over a small section of the younger man's back. Nice...

 

The game continues and at the end of the fourth inning, the dance squad from the area's largest university bounces out to do their thing atop the dugouts. I swear, I *love* this part of the game but know there are many females in the stands who'd rather be tweezing their eyebrows than sitting here watching these scantily clad girls perform their more than slightly suggestive routine but it's all part of the management's way of 'equal entertainment'. Yeah, right.

 

I take my eyes off of the girls just for a moment and, sure enough, there goes Ramona and Traci, looking all pissy and put out, off to hit the restroom or, more likely, to hook up with their 'dudes of the day'. They may be back...or not...but, frankly, when I've got a line of jiggling jugs and gyrating asses to admire, wrapped up in some tiny, little, *tight* costumes, there's just no way I'm going to spend time worrying about them. Hell, no...

 

The music starts and there they go: the tempo is fast and the bass shoots straight to my dick and these girls are really getting into the number. I know I'm grinning like a big fool but I have to laugh out loud when I suddenly hear Frankie and JJ yelling out their own dose of encouragement. One of the dancers, a blonde with a tattoo peeking out on one hip, lifts her gaze, catches their eyes, and coyly does a series of exaggerated pelvic rolls, her hands skimming seductively from waist to thighs...and between. Holy shit...

 

There goes Mrs. Jacobson, pulling Bradley and Seth up the aisle, her face set stonily in an expression of open disgust. She may be a little mad right now but she's really not the type to complain and is probably just using the time to take the kids to the vendor area for a short break. Yeah, right. Poor Seth keeps looking back over his shoulder, toward the dancers, and I can tell he's mad he has to leave right now. He may just be eleven but he's got the right idea about things. It must come naturally for him because Mr. Jacobson hasn't moved an inch out of his seat and seems mesmerized by the synchronized movements of the bodies on the roof of the dugout. Now, if he'd just close his gaping mouth a bit...

 

I look swiftly over to the middle of row nine to see how the guys are responding to the show and, low and behold, Tony and his companion are sitting *real* close now as they both grin up at the gyrations and snaps and turns of the dancers. But Blue Eyes has removed his arm from the back of Tony's seat and now has his hand resting on the younger man's closest knee, that restless thumb still tracing wicked-looking patterns on the denim surface. I see Tony squirm a bit and suddenly flex his shoulders before slightly widening his legs just enough until he can press his knee against the other man's leg. Blue Eyes' hand slowly drifts a couple inches higher and I just don't know where to look now. The dancers are hot but this...well, hell, this is *blazing*.

 

The music and the dancers have almost everyone's total attention, that's true, but I get to see these same girls perform this same routine at almost every, single game...sometimes twice a night. Yes, most are lookers and sexy as hell, and can probably make a dead man sit up and take notice but, let's face it, I usually don't get to see two hot guys making these kinds of moves on each other, especially not out in public.

 

They must have the same thought because Blue Eyes is suddenly pulling his hand reluctantly away and Tony is straightening up a bit in his seat but *neither* is paying any attention to the dancers now. Instead, they're just staring at each other, not saying a word, and this continues all the way through the rest of the musical routine. They must be silently communicating somehow. That's got to be it. When the older guy's eyes abruptly drop to focus on his companion's lips, I suddenly understand what's happening...I mean, *really* understand...especially when I see Tony mouth, 'I want you'. Now, I can't read lips but I can sure read lust.

 

Whoa...

 

Blue Eyes is quickly standing and reaching to snag the jacket he'd casually draped over the empty seat on his other side before the game started, his avid gaze never wavering from Tony's up turned face. He continues to stand and wait, watching with a tense kind of patience, as the younger man finally gets to his feet. Unbelievably, Blue Eyes reaches out and wraps one, strong-looking hand around Tony's bicep. It's a possessive move and I immediately get the feeling he'd rather be reaching for the closest hand instead but it's easy to see these two guys are trying their best to be as careful as they can about appearances. Too bad really because I'd give anything, even my other nut, to see them in action together. Well...

 

As they start out the row and make it to the aisle, I can see that Frankie and JJ are watching their departure, too. I don't know when they stopped watching the dancers and shifted their attention to the guys but they're both wearing big, shit-eating grins. As Tony nears their position, Frankie says something that makes him blush and drop his chin in obvious embarrassment but he manages a small smile for them anyway. Old Blue Eyes doesn't look too amused about what just transpired but simply continues to lead Tony along until they're finally gone from my line of sight. I see Frankie and JJ exchanging knowing grins and quick words and I vow to find out what was said before they get away for the night.

 

When the dancers leave and the game is about to resume, Mrs. Jacobson is coming back with her two kids in tow. I see Bradley cast an expectant, and then unhappy, gaze over toward Tony's now-empty seats and know the little rugrat is kind of disappointed. I feel sorry for the kid but know he'll get over it quickly. He'll have other opportunities to sit on that lap and watch the after-game activities at other games. Besides, what's scheduled for later promises to be a spectacular show, like all of the others periodically given for the appreciative crowds but I guarantee it won't hold a candle to what's going to be happening between Tony and Blue Eyes tonight. Just thinking about it makes me horny. Man, talk about fireworks...

 

Shit, if I only had another nut.

 

 

END


End file.
